Run
by That's LEON
Summary: It's not the first time they've met like this. CloudxSquall. Limey, no spoilers.


**A/N:**

This is completely pointless and irrelevant to the game, but I had to write _something_ because I am so, SO incredibly pleased that SQUALL IS BACK. Yeahhh, motherfuckers! I haven't played Cloud's bit yet (I /had/ to play Squall's bit first! XD ), so sorry if his character is incongruous with Dissidia canon here.

Oh, and thanks to _Identity Crysis_ (the cloud to my squalleon :3) for letting me spam her with shit from this at 2 AM last night.

Also I learned from this that I hate (and/or am bad at) writing limes. Lemons are more fun. :c Damn TOS.

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It's not the first time they've met like this—a cross of paths at night, when he should be sleeping somewhere safe and _he_ should be watching over Firion and Cecil and Tidus. Squall doesn't seem to like getting much sleep, though, and Cloud finds himself stealing away when he knows the others are safe.

At the moment, Squall's lips are turned down in a no-nonsense scowl, and somehow it manages to make him look menacing despite the ruffs of innocuous fur adorning his clothes. He's still crouching where he landed his final attack several minutes before, gaze upturned to the man he's now speaking to. A dark, painful-looking bruise is forming in a sprawl across his jaw, his shirt damp with sweat, his leather jacket sullied with barely-discernable spots of red.

"I'll come with you," Cloud says, earning a hard stare from the brunet.

"I work alone. I already told the kid that." Squall jerks his head, gesturing metaphorically backwards, at an event in the near past.

But Cloud doesn't budge, lifting his broadsword to the holster on his back in silence. He listens for the comforting _click_ of it latching into place before speaking. "Don't think I didn't see you get your ass kicked back there." He knows that the brunet is too proud, too headstrong, to accept any help. But he also knows that the _real_ reason Squall refuses is that the last thing he wants is to wind up in a situation where he has to—where he has to and _fails_ to—protect someone else. And it's funny to know that this guy, who seems completely self-contained and fearless, is—in his own stoic way—completely terrified.

Squall's eyebrows draw together with an icy defiance that seems to chill the air around them, before his expression relaxes—not into forgiveness, only composure, his pale eyes knowing. "Don't think I don't know you're ditching your party."

"They don't need me," Cloud says quietly. "You—"

"I can take care of myself," Squall retorts with a fierce glare, standing, arms automatically crossing over his chest as he does.

"I don't care how good you are at fighting. People make mistakes." Cloud tries to gauge the brunet, tries to see if he's getting to the other _at all_, but all he receives is an impassive stare. "It's _stupid_ to be out here by yourself. You need someone to look out for you."

"Whatever." Squall rolls his eyes and turns away, shouldering his gunblade. "Look out for me all you want. Don't expect me to come running when you're getting beat to a pulp because your boys aren't there to back you up."

"I wouldn't expect..." Cloud hesitates, tries to swallow his words, averts his eyes quickly when they escape him anyway, "I'm not asking you to do anything in return." His voice is quiet, earnest, and the gunblader stops in his tracks.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Squall retorts, but the fight doesn't seem to be in his voice anymore. When there's no response, he turns back and asks simply, "Aren't you just running away?"

Cloud allows the other's eyes to meet his, allows him whatever he can read there as a token of respect for his insight. "Aren't _you_?"

"Hn." Squall says succinctly, ending in practice the conversation that is already over—that has _been_ over. With that one look, it had ended. He knows. Cloud knows. And each of them knows that the other knows. They're both cowards in their own right, both running from a nameless, faceless _something_ that drives them away from anyone that might actually _need_ their protection. And somehow, strangely enough, it's driven them straight to each other.

It's still driving them, the something that's to blame every time they find each other like this. Small world, really, that running as far as you can just lands you in something else to run from.

Except, Cloud notes, he doesn't really want to run anymore. He's still running from his party, sure, in every duck of his head when he's afraid they'll catch him grinning at their antics, in every calm shrug that somehow distracts them from his glaring anxieties. He can't think of anything to do but run from them, but when it comes to Squall... he wants to _pursue_, if only because the brunet is ahead of him. Like a dog that's scared a passerby into fleeing, the only logical conclusion he can reach, no matter how many ways he looks at this predicament, is to take chase.

Squall is alone, needs an ally, one who's a match for him? Follow him.

Squall is a brilliant swordsman, doesn't need protecting? Follow him.

Squall is gorgeous, makes him want to screw him senseless? ...Follow him.

Cloud allows a small smirk at that last thought, and Squall seems to like that look on him, the brunet's lips curving into a mirroring expression.

"What?" the gunblader asks, cocking an eyebrow.

"Nothing," he lies, advancing until they're face to face. The boy's eyes are bluer up close, a reflection of his own, although even he would be hard-pressed to keep his eyes as walled as Squall's are now. There is no trace of emotion, only the cold, hard stare of a man who seeks nothing the world can possibly give him—who needs nothing, wants nothing, except perhaps to be left alone.

Cloud's smirk widens because he knows what a lie it is, because he _knows_ that Squall has both needs and wants, the hallmarks of humanity. He's seen Squall fight to defend a life he claims is worthless, seen him bleed, seen him grimace at wounds that "don't hurt." And he's heard Squall gasp, moan, felt the bite of the younger man's nails against his flesh, tasted the salty-almost-sweet flavor of his release. If that's not evidence that Squall is every bit human as he is, he doesn't know what is.

Maybe the way he's still as Cloud's lips fasten against his, and the way the tension drains out of him as he allows himself the comfort—as he lets himself turn around and run from his self-induced isolation, for once. Just once, as he undoubtedly tells himself every time, undoubtedly aware that 'once' has a tendency to become 'once more.'

Maybe the way he hesitates before responding, the way he allows Cloud to see that momentary weakness as he falters, before his hands are tangled in the older man's shirt and he's kissing back roughly, unwilling to let any challenge go unanswered. Or maybe the way he fights so thoroughly for dominance, whether they're just standing there _looking_ at each other or fucking, or anything in between, proving once and for all that he _does_ know how to defend something, even if it's only his pride for now.

It's not the first time they've met like this, and it's not the first time they've kissed like this, a feral collision of haphazardly entwined tongues—a sinfully filthy-erotic tangle of biting and sucking and licking and _wanting_. They try to isolate the incidents, try to deny that they've been here before, but Cloud can't deny entirely the familiarity of the situation.

He's heard it before, the softly vocalized panting against his ear as their hips grind together, and he's felt the shudder of satisfaction that caresses down his spine at the muffled growl of defiant pleasure that vibrates against his lips as he kisses the column of the younger man's throat. Whatever his party expects him to be during the day, whatever he'll have to be in the upcoming battles, he doesn't have to be that now—_can't_ be that now, not when he's this preoccupied with the writhing body trapped between his own and the wall.

Armor is shed, stat-enhancing accessories removed, straps and belts undone, clothes tugged off just enough. It doesn't matter where they are; no one is ever around, and something in their environment can always be used to his advantage, whether he's pinning Squall to it, bending him over it, or driving him up it. And sometimes vice versa, which he doesn't mind nearly as much as he should, maybe because it doesn't make much of a difference. The obvious ways of telling who's in charge are always belied by the subtleties of their situation.

Subtleties, like the way his knees go weak as Squall's lips wrap around his fingers and—even though the younger man is obeying his every command—he's at the other's mercy as the brunet's tongue curls along the digits in his mouth, coating them with saliva. It's not hard to tell that he's not the leading man tonight, even though he's the one doing the fucking.

The night air is cold, their staggered breaths visible as puffs of pale fog between them, and hands wander in desperate search of warmth, stroking across over-heated skin, eliciting a wide array of noises, all while Squall's back chafes against the wall as Cloud drives into him again and again. It's not long before Cloud's face buried in the other's throat, hands hooking his thighs, as the gunblader's hands clutch at his shoulders. The darkness around them is witness to both Squall's harsh panting and the short, stifled moans Cloud issues against the brunet's sweat-slicked skin—witness to the way both of them quicken as the rhythm between them stutters.

Cloud finds himself thrown headlong into orgasm first, a solid acquiescence to Squall's victory tonight, and he knows the younger man is smirking even as he follows moments later with a broken cry. They fall still, the wall bearing their combined weight as they catch their breath, and he slowly lowers the brunet to his feet. Neither of them speaks for several long minutes, not quite daring to move, until at length they untangle themselves and make an attempt to clean up and make themselves decent.

Shirts are re-tucked into pants that are replaced to innocence, belts retrieved, mussed hair ruffled back into place, until the only evidence of what they've done is the horizontal creasing in Squall's shirt where it was shoved up his torso. And Cloud takes a step back, surveying him quietly.

Like a dog chasing a truck, he _wants_ Squall even though he has no idea why—he wants to chase and he _wants_ to catch up. But once he does, once the deed is done, he has no idea what to do with himself. So all he can really do is fall back on the age-old habit of running away, even if he knows that he's only putting the distance between them so he can start chasing again.

"I should go," he says finally, breaking the comfortable silence and giving himself that out so he can return to his party, because it's the only place he has to go back to when he's running _from_ his usual refuge.

"Yeah."

Maybe, one day, the truck will stop and maybe by then he _will_ know what to do with it. But it's not today and he doesn't know if the planet will even stick around that long, so he doesn't think about what will happen when Squall is done running and he's done chasing, and they have to confront whatever this is between them.

"Night," he says, giving himself that out, knowing that Squall will keep running, and knowing that he'll be free to chase him down again, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week.

"Yeah," Squall echoes, as the older man fades into the darkness around him. "G'night."


End file.
